the songs of the 'angiolin' had imbued her with; and then she set her teeth and clung on for dear life again. No one in heaven cared. It was with her as when the moor-hen was shot on the waters, as when the woodlark was trapped in the net. No one cared. There was no 'angiolin' beside the stars!
She was now almost numb with cold. The water drenched her, rain and salt water both poured over her, and the night had grown bitterly cold. She supposed it was night, she could not tell. She put off her heavy shoes, and made her clothes as light as she could, knowing that at any moment she might have to float and swim for her life. She kept her hold as well as she could on the tiller, and kept the boat as far as she could guess due north.
The sea seemed like some great cauldron that boiled and seethed. The roar and the shriek of the winds were incessant. The rain seemed to strike like whips. The little craft was well-built and seaworthy, and kept afloat where a heavier vessel would at once have filled and sunk. But she knew very well that every moment might be her last, and a great cold had crept into her very
